by Jane Jackson
‘Down ’ere,’ he pointed, ‘left up Well Lane, up the steps and turn left, then turn right at the end of the street.’
‘Thank you,’ Jenefer said, hoping she would remember. But he had already gone, clambering up onto the roof to unload chests and portmanteaux.
Jenefer eased her way through passengers waiting for their luggage and others waiting to board and set off along the busy street. Intimidated by the noise and crowds she walked quickly and tried to look as if she knew where she was going.
She passed a pair of well-dressed ladies who had paused to look at the hats displayed in a milliner’s window. Noting their double-breasted coats with the new high waists, Jenefer knew she would appear to them as dowdy and unfashionable. Immediately she felt ashamed for fretting over trivialities. Far more pressing matters demanded her attention.
Both sides of the street were lined with shops: a butcher’s where braces of pheasants, partridges, and pigeons hung above an open front displaying joints of beef, mutton, and pork on a marble slab.
A greengrocer’s displayed cabbages, carrots, parsnips, potatoes, turnips, and bunches of herbs. An apothecary’s window advertised remedies for a vast range of ailments. A cobbler sat in his doorway whipping tacks from between his lips as he attached a new sole to a leather boot. The smell of fresh bread wafted from a bakery.
Every few yards, separating the shops on the lower side, alleyways led down to narrow quays. Beyond them she glimpsed the harbour and boats of every size and rig. The wind funnelling up these alleys carried the sounds of the waterfront and the acrid reek of hot pitch, stale fish, sewage, and seaweed.
She hurried past groups of seamen lurching out of inns and alehouses. While some bellowed curses and threw wild punches, others whistled and shouted lewd remarks to painted women in gaudy gowns who loitered in shadowed doorways.
She had found Helston busy. But the main street there was three times the width of this one. Here, fear that two carts would surely collide, or one of the ragged urchins darting between the wagons would fall to their deaths beneath the thundering hooves and rumbling wheels made her heart beat uncomfortably fast. She felt battered by the noise, the raucous shouting, and the pungent smells of manure, decaying fruit, rancid oil, and beer-soaked sawdust.
But at least she was here. Had it not been for Devlin Varcoe’s refusal to accept the money she had offered him for rent, she could not have afforded to make the journey.
Half an hour later she walked up the steps to the front door of Martin’s house. A gleaming brass knocker on the black-painted door indicated that the house had not been closed up. So someone was at home.
The door opened. ‘Yes?’ The elderly woman wore a plain cap. Her simple dark gown, white kerchief, and chatelaine holding several keys proclaimed her the housekeeper.
‘My name is Jenefer Trevanion. I’m the fiancée of Mr Martin Erisey.’
‘He idn here.’ The woman frowned.
‘I know –’
‘He’s abroad. Which you would be aware of, if you was who you claim to be.’
‘I am aware. But I –’ Jenefer bit her tongue and started again. ‘Is Mr Erisey senior at home?
The housekeeper shook her head. ‘In London he is. There idn nobody here but me.’ She started to close the door.
‘Wait! Please! I understand that my coming here like this is … irregular. But my father died recently and I was expecting Mr Erisey’s return several weeks ago.’
‘Well, he idn back yet.’ She stepped back once more.
‘Letters,’ Jenefer said in desperation. ‘I wrote several letters. Were they delivered here?’
The housekeeper hesitated. ‘Yes, they came. And I took them down to Mr Erisey’s lawyer, like I was told.’
‘His lawyer?’
‘That’s what I said.’
‘Will you give me the address? Please? It is a matter of urgency. Otherwise I would not –’
‘Hellings and Vincent in Market Street. Just this side of Bell’s Court.’
‘ Thank you.’ The door closed before Jenefer had finished speaking.
Her cheeks hot, her heart thumping against her ribs at the woman’s rudeness, she turned away and retraced her steps. Daylight was beginning to fade and her anxiety was mounting when she arrived at the lawyer’s offices.
Waiting outside a panelled mahogany door she listened to the low murmur of question and answer. She wondered what the clerk was saying and gripped her purse more tightly. Then the door opened and the clerk gestured for her to enter. As she went in the door closed softly on his retreating back.
‘Miss Trevanion? My name is Vincent. I am Mr Erisey’s attorney.’
Dropping a curtsey, Jenefer sat down on a hard chair clearly designed to discourage visitors from lingering and watched the lawyer move round behind a large oak desk on which documents were neatly stacked in piles. He was a stocky man with a ruddy complexion and a paunch that strained against his waistcoat. Jenefer saw at a glance that his black frock coat and small clothes were of superior quality, his stockings spotless and his shoes highly polished. His grizzled wig indicated a man unmoved by the fashion for natural hair.
‘How may I help you?’
His tone and expression were noncommittal. But as she met his gaze the kindness she saw there eased her tension and loosened her tongue. She told him of her changed circumstances, her attempts to contact Martin and her decision to come after reading of the packet ship’s skirmish in the newspaper.
‘Mr Erisey’s housekeeper said she was told to bring my letters here to you.’
‘As indeed she did.’
‘Then you know where he is?’ Hope leapt, only to be dashed as he shook his head.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t. My instructions were to forward any mail for Mr Erisey to an address in London.’
‘Where –’
‘I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to disclose that information. I sympathise with your predicament, Miss Trevanion. Unfortunately it is not within my power to alleviate it.’ His expression softened slightly. ‘You know there might be any number of reasons why you have not heard from him. His return might have been postponed due to the negotiations taking longer than expected. Or it may be that something as simple but infuriating as bad weather caused him to delay his sailing.’ Placing his hands flat on the table he rose to his feet, a clear signal that the interview was at an end.
‘I am sure you would have been informed had anything untoward occurred. I fear the only advice I can give you is to be patient.’ His smile conveyed both sympathy and apology.
Jenefer rose. ‘Thank you for seeing me.’
Out on the street once more, her head buzzing with unanswered questions, Jenefer stood for a moment. Why had her letters been sent to London? Why would Mr Vincent not give her the address? If Martin had received her letters, why had he not replied? Where was he? Far from satisfied despite the lawyer’s assurances, Jenefer walked up the narrow slip and into the Packet Office.
Thinking quickly, she explained to the clerk that her fiancé had been a passenger on the Lady Mary, the Packet mentioned in the newspaper as being involved in a skirmish with a French privateer. His voyage to America had been made many weeks earlier. But he should have returned to England by now and the lack of news was causing her grave concern. Would he be so kind as to check the passenger lists for the Lady Mary?
The clerk opened a huge ledger, ran his finger down the page and frowned. ‘What date did he sail?’
Jenefer told him. The clerk turned the pages one at a time running his finger down the list of names.
‘You sure you got the date right?’
‘I’m positive,’ Jenefer said.
With a deepening frown the clerk turned back several pages from his starting point and repeated his check. Then he looked up.
‘I’m sorry, miss. He’s not on the list.’
Jenefer stared at him. ‘That can’t be right. Please will you look again?’
The clerk tapped the
ledger with an ink-stained finger. ‘Don’t matter how many times I look, if it isn’t there, it isn’t there.’ He swivelled the ledger, pointing to each column. ‘That’s the ship’s name, that’s the date she sailed and that’s her destination. And this here’s the list of passengers. See his name, do you?’
Jenefer read then re-read the entries. Martin’s name did not appear anywhere. She moistened dry lips. ‘Perhaps – that’s not the only packet sailing for America, is it?’
‘No, there’s –’
‘Then maybe he mistook the name. Would you look to see if he is on the passenger list of any of the others? Please?’
The clerk sucked air through his teeth. ‘Halifax for New York, you said? Only one sailing a month, the Sunday after the first Wednesday.’ He turned pages as he spoke, ran his finger swiftly down the entries then shook his head again.
‘Sorry, miss. His name isn’t there. Wherever he’s gone, it isn’t America, not on a Falmouth packet.’
With the contraband safely stowed aboard the lugger, the crew took turns to stand guard and snatch a few hours’ sleep.
‘Get some rest yourself,’ Hedley advised as he unlocked a door and ushered Devlin into a private part of the house where a room was kept ready for him. ‘You’ll need all your wits about you on the homeward run.’
Removing his boots, Devlin stretched out on top of the counterpane. The mattress was soft, the linen crisp and clean, and having been awake for almost thirty-six hours he was exhausted. Yet his mind would not stop
It seemed he had only just closed his eyes when he heard his uncle’s voice repeating his name, and a hand shaking his shoulder.
‘Time to move if you’re to catch the tide.’
Sitting up, Devlin swung his feet to the floor and rubbed his face, feeling beard stubble rasp against his palms. ‘Coffee?’ he croaked.
‘On the chest. Here.’
Devlin looked up as his uncle thrust a slim package sealed with red wax at him. Stained and filthy, it had clearly passed through many hands on its way here.
‘Hide it well, boy. If you’re caught with it you’re as good as dead.’
Devlin pushed the letter into the sole of his boot, pulled both boots on over his thick socks, stood up and reached for his coffee. ‘They’ll have to catch me first.’
An hour later, after a meal hearty enough to sustain them for a crossing that might take until dawn, the crew hoisted the big lugsail on the foremast. Then they set the main lug and staysail for raising once they had manoeuvred their way out of the harbour, and made ready to cast off.
Devlin bade his uncle goodbye.
‘You watch yourself, boy,’ Hedley muttered as they shook hands. ‘I know family is family and all that. But I hear things. Word is that brother of yours have got grand ideas, but not the money to match. I wouldn’t trust the bugger.’
Devlin’s smile was grim. ‘I haven’t trusted him for twenty years.’
Darkness fell quickly. The wind had backed round to the south west and was blowing strongly. Despite her load of casks, the lugger creamed through the water. Pale clouds chased each other across an inky sky and played hide-and-seek with the stars. Standing at the tiller, keen to get as many sea miles behind them as possible before the moon rose, he sniffed the air.
‘Think it’ll rain, skip?’ Sam murmured beside him.
Devlin nodded. ‘If we’re lucky.’ Cold wet clothes were a small price to pay for the protection afforded by poor visibility.
Hours passed. The wind remained steady, removing the need to change course or continually shift ballast. The crew split the watch, half making any necessary sail adjustments and keeping a lookout, while the others hunkered down out of the wind and dozed.
After midnight, knowing he needed a break, Devlin turned over the helm to Sam. Sitting on one of the casks his thoughts returned yet again of Tamara. To have a child out of wedlock would disgrace her and her family. Yet she had forbidden her mother to tell him.
He could not pretend he didn’t know why. He had rejected her. And he had done so with deliberate cruelty. He had only to close his eyes to see her face: the naked hurt swiftly masked by pride, anger, and contempt. Day and night that image haunted him. When he was busy he could banish her. But the moment his guard dropped …
He had neither time nor energy to spare for guilt. His way of life demanded quick decisions, forced hard choices. Most worked. Those that didn’t he shrugged off. They could not be changed, only learned from. But when he thought of her he felt shame and that made him angry.
He had forced or coerced her. She had led him on. He had expected her to pull away. But she hadn’t and then it was too late and no power on earth could have prevented what happened. Hot, breathless, her mouth so soft on his, she had clung to him. He had never felt, never known – he slammed a door on thoughts he could not afford.
Half the village would say the scandal served her mother right for assuming such fancy airs and graces, and that Tamara deserved the trouble she was in. As if a child were a punishment.
He hadn’t been wanted. He knew how that felt. Would he wish that on his own flesh and blood? His father had resented and blamed him for his mother’s death. His brother loathed him. The feeling was mutual.
How could he be sure the child was his? What if she had been with someone else after him? Did he believe that? He could as soon believe the sun rose in the west. He raked both hands through his hair as his thoughts coiled and writhed like smoke. She had told him she loved him. He knew he inspired fear and respect, even admiration. But love? No one had ever loved him. So how could he believe her?
He thought of Inez and Arf. They had defied his father and taken him in, cared for him. Jared was more of a brother than Thomas had ever been. Yet, despite the warmth and kindness he had enjoyed in their home, he was an outsider. But he was used to that. He had never known any different. He had no fear of solitude. Alone was safer.
‘Skip!’ Ben’s hoarse whisper roused him from his thoughts. ‘A sail.’
On his feet in an instant, Devlin automatically glanced east. The horizon was growing lighter as daybreak approached. ‘Where?’
Ben pointed south-east over the starboard quarter. ‘Could be a free-trader coming from Guernsey.’
Devlin pulled the eye-glass from inside his jacket. ‘Andy, shin up the foremast and take a look.’
Sam and Danny gave him a boost up. Joe and Billy, who had been sleeping, scrambled to their feet.
‘What’s on?’ Billy whispered.
‘Sails,’ Ben told him.
Dropping the glass into Sam’s waiting hands, Andy jumped down. ‘Skip, I can’t swear to it, but she look to me like the Lark .’
Standing on top of the casks, Devlin peered through the glass. ‘It is the Lark.’
‘Bleddy ‘ell, not again,’ Joe whispered. ‘Talk about bad luck.’
‘Bad luck be damned,’ Devlin muttered. ‘This is no coincidence.’ Snapping the glass shut he returned it to his pocket. ‘I’ll take the helm. Sam, you and Billy run up the jib-topsail. Andy and Joe, set the square topsail. Danny, Ben, check the ropes and sinking stones.’ He heard a sharp intake of breath. But no one spoke as each man hurried about his task.
Dropping the cargo so far from shore would mean it was lost for good, the water too deep to have any chance of finding it again.
‘Right, boys,’ Devlin growled. ‘Let’s shake her off.’
Chapter Fifteen
Wrapped in her counterpane, Tamara sat in her bedroom window with her back against the folded shutter. She hugged her knees as she gazed out over the harbour to the dark restless sea beyond. On the horizon the first glimmers of dawn paled the sky. Another day.
A shuffling in the passage made her turn her head. It was too early for Sally to be bringing her hot chocolate. The door opened and her mother crept in, closing it softly behind her.
‘What is it, Mama? Are you …?’
Starting, Morwenna whirled round, pressing one hand to
the ruffles over her bosom. ‘Oh, what a shock you gave me!’ she whispered. ‘What are you doing? Why are you out of bed?’
‘I couldn’t sleep,’ Tamara said.
‘Hush! Keep your voice down.’ Her mother’s was a harsh whisper. ‘Do you want to wake the entire household?’
Tamara sighed inwardly. It was more than likely that everyone in the house was already awake. Sally would be downstairs cleaning out the grates, lighting the fires and heating water. Her father had always been an early riser. No doubt he was drinking his morning tea downstairs in his study. As to herself, she often crept out at sunrise to saddle her mare and enjoy a gallop on the moor. Though she was careful to return home in time to wash and change before her mother emerged from her room where she would have lingered over her morning tea then spent an hour dressing.
‘I’m not surprised you can’t sleep,’ Morwenna huffed, ‘considering all you have on your conscience. If indeed you have given a thought to the grief you are causing your father and me.’
Knowing any response would add fuel to the flames of her mother’s anger and anxiety, Tamara spoke the truth. ‘I think of little else, Mama. But why have you come? Are you unwell? Do you want me to …?’
‘What I want is to have a private conversation with you.’ Gathering up her voluminous bedgown, Morwenna moved round the foot of the bed and sank onto the rumpled blankets. The grey light from the window fell across her face as she glared at her daughter.
‘I fear for my health and it’s all your fault. I can’t sleep, I have such flutterings and palpitations.’ Her voice broke on a sob and she pressed a square of lace-edged cambric to her nose.
Tamara swung her legs to the floor. ‘I’m sorry you feel so poorly. Shall I fetch some –’
‘You stay exactly where you are. I didn’t come in here to talk about my suffering. Though this dreadful business has put years on me. Years!’ She dabbed her eyes. ‘I’m here because decisions have to be made.’
Watching her mother sit straighter and drop her hands to her lap where they fretted holes in the delicate handkerchief, Tamara felt her stomach tighten into a knot.
